


almost is never enough

by Authors_Restraint



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (or the other way around idek), Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Ejaculation, Just Roll With It, Multiple Orgasms, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Sharing a Bed, Size Kink, because it's what she deserves, like level thirsty, oh and sansa's got a bit of a size kink okay?, sansa is in love with her stupid sexy brother-cousin, sansa is thirsty, she thinks jon is clueless, someone give this girl an orgasm pls, then they bang, there's love confessions, there's some background plot for story grounding or some shit i don't know, who gives a fuck anyway we're all here for the porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 13:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17867858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Authors_Restraint/pseuds/Authors_Restraint
Summary: Jon Snow - or Targaryen depending on who's speaking of him (it won't ever be Sansa; she'll never insult him so); or Stark if Sansa has anything to say about it and oh how much she wants to - is absolutely insufferable.A complete frustration he is.Ask Sansa what he's done wrong and it's absolutelynothing.





	almost is never enough

**Author's Note:**

> oh, hi folks! 
> 
> this little gem's been just chilling in my flashdrive for the past few months and i finally got off my lazy ass to finish it. was in a pretty unpleasant mood the day this was written so i wrote some jonsa smut to cheer me up. was supposed to be a oneshot but my ass couldn't get with it so the next chap will just be the straight smut.
> 
> enjoy you horny bitches!

Jon Snow- or Targaryen depending on who's speaking of him (it won't _ever_ be Sansa; she'll never insult him so); or Stark if Sansa has anything to say about it and oh how much she _wants_ to- is absolutely insufferable.  
  
A complete frustration he is.  
  
Ask Sansa what he's done wrong and it's absolutely _nothing_.  
  
And therein lies the ultimate problem.

* * *

It's been nine months since the War for the Dawn; nine months since the terror of the Others and the Long Night have wrecked their havoc on Westeros.  
  
The North's seen the most of the damage and an entire section of Winterfell's castle has been destroyed from where the wight Viserion had rained blue fire down upon it. The castle had been built and protected by old magic but that magic seemed to be no match for the power of an ice dragon.  
  
As a result, members of the household had to be relocated elsewhere and Jon, being the self-sacrificing and altruistic soul that he is, had given up his chambers so that a mother and her many children could sleep there. It's big enough to house them and he doesn't even need all that space, he'd said. He's slept in worse conditions, he'd said.  
  
The woman had nearly wept in refusal but Jon simply reminded her, quite gently, that it was an insult to refuse the offer of one's King. He wouldn't have been able to sleep comfortably knowing that there was something that could have been done to help her, and she would _want_ her King sleeping comfortably, wouldn't she? It was absolute manipulation, albeit for a good cause, but manipulation none-the-less. Jon had become _quite_ politically savvy of late. Even better than he'd been before.  
  
It was such a bold and shocking move, not even one that their- _her_ \- Lord Father would have taken. If it hasn't been made clearer to her, Sansa's now completely, irrevocably, head over arse in love with him.  
  
Kings just . . . they just don't _do_ those sorts of things. They don't but then again, Jon's not just _any_ king.

As whenever Jon decides to do something that may be met with disapproval, Sansa's there to smooth things over. By right she should leave him to deal with whatever mess may arise with this but she's much better at placating the Northern Lords than he is.

Jon's good at diplomacy but when it comes to things like these, he believes that doing what is right shouldn't have to be questioned. Sansa whole-heartedly agrees and she knows that the Northern Lords do as well. She also knows that the reason they try to find fault with whatever Jon does recently, stems from the fact that they no longer completely trust him.

Since bending the knee to Daenerys and the revelation that he wasn't a Stark bastard, but a true-born Targaryen prince, whatever respect they might have had for him has been gone. The only reason he's King now is because the remaining Lords of the Seven Kingdoms signed an agreement and had sworn fealty to him, preferring him over his conquering aunt.

It's also that he's risked his life for the North, almost perishing in the fight against The Night King. It's equal parts shame and distrust that they follow Jon now. There's also that Sansa has thrown the full support of House Stark behind him and if she trusts him, the Northern Lords have no choice but to do the same lest they bring shame unto their own House.

* * *

Nine months later and the Northern Lords seem to be thawing towards him. Not that Sansa thinks that Jon cares.

Anyway, what with his room occupied by the woman, Lyla is her name- she's one of the chambermaids- Jon's been staying in the Lord's Chambers.

With Sansa.

Initially, it'd been a battle in and of itself to get Jon to even _agree_ to enter the room, far less share a bed with her. She had wondered if she was being unnecessarily cruel by insisting he stay with her in what had been _her_ parents' room what with his newfound parentage and everything.

To stay in the room of the man who, he'd learnt, wasn't his father but uncle, the room of the woman who'd despised his very existence, to share the bed with a woman he'd called _sister. . ._

Sansa could see how it would become too much. She didn't force the issue but left the offer open to him for whenever he was ready to take it. She'd handed him a spare key that, for the first few days he'd been without a room, she'd seen him wear on a thin rope around his neck tucked into his tunic.

At first she'd been left to wonder where he was taking his rest because Ghost slept with her. Jon's direwolf seemed to spend more time with her than he did his own master, she'd felt.

One night a week later, as she'd been getting ready for bed, she'd heard a soft knock on the door and the jingling of a key. She'd breathed a sigh of relief after hearing that, knowing that it couldn't have been anyone other than Jon.

They've been sharing a bed for months now. Even as the destroyed wing of the castle has been rebuilt and Lyla and her children have moved out of Jon's room.

Jon says he'll go back to his room now that things are back to normal.

He doesn't.

* * *

Jon's a nice bed partner. He's respectful, keeps to his side of the bed and if he snores, well he does that quietly.

They don't have to say much to each other as they get ready for bed on opposite sides of the room. Sansa usually does most of the talking, the rare times that they do. She sometimes feels like she talks _too_ much, or that she could be talking to one of the statues in the crypt for all of Jon's solemn silence.

She likes that he's a quiet man but she wishes he'd _talk_ to her sometimes. Before all of the mess that happened when he went South, they used to be able to talk about anything and everything. Sansa misses that.

She'd had a best friend once and Jon had quickly reminded her of what it felt like to have one again. Never mind that they'd never been close as children. He's forgiven her of that, he'd said.

She liked to pick his brain on things, liked to hear of his plans, depended on his strength and wisdom to successfully rule their home and household. She'd depended on his _presence_ to feel _safe_. Stupid of her to put so much trust in one man, but Jon wasn't just any _man_ , was he? He was _family_ .

She misses that closeness sometimes. Especially in light of the fact that their blood relations are much more distant now than they'd ever been. Sansa finds that she can't be _completely_ upset about that last bit. Obviously it hurts her to think that her mother went to her grave believing that Father dishonoured her but as for Jon no longer being her brother - that he'd never _been_ her brother to begin with - well that doesn't hurt as much.

It doesn't hurt _at all._

* * *

Sharing a bed with your cousin is fine. It's platonic, you're family and you'll never do anything untoward with each other. That is, if you aren't Sansa, your cousin is female (or not if you're inclined to such), and not devastatingly and annoyingly _handsome_ as Jon is.

(Then again, she could be wrong. Intimate family relations seem to be becoming somewhat of a norm in Westeros now.)

Handsome doesn't even feel right to her either.  
  
Jon isn't just handsome.  
  
Jon is _pretty_ .  
  
He's got beautiful raven curls that they now know come from his birth father (the curls, not the colour), curling eyelashes that come from his mother and full pouty pink lips that for the past few days Sansa's been fantasizing about kissing. Such a pretty, sinful mouth he has.  
  
One can see her predicament.  
  
She's catastrophically in love with Jon Snow, shares a bed with Jon Snow, practically shares a _kingdom_ with Jon Snow and it's absolutely agonizing that the man can't even see how besotted she is with him. He walks around as if he's apart from everything around him; as if he feels that he doesn't belong and that he's fine with it.  
  
It's even more frustrating because sometimes at night she'll roll around on the bed and somehow wake up with her head either on his chest, or buried in his neck, sometimes with her thigh thrown over his muscular leg.

And gods forbid on one of those nights she happens to awaken from one of _those_ dreams. Dreams where he wakes to see her sprawled over his body, panting, wanting, _aching_ for him and he just. . . he just rolls her onto her back, spreads her legs and just gives her what she's asking for; his lips, his fingers, his tongue, his. . . _his_.

To wake from one of those dreams to be wrapped around his body, thighs quaking, small-clothes almost soaked all the way through, his firm chest beneath her ear. . . His hands will always be in respectable areas. Not too high or too low on her back and the like. It's a miracle she hasn't combusted from sheer sexual frustration alone.

She's exceptionally lucky to wake before him whenever she has one of those dreams. And Jon just. . . Jon just brushes it off as if he's unaffected and as if it doesn't even bother him a bit. He's a perfect gentleman about it.  
  
It's not like they don't touch each other regularly, he says. It's true, Sansa knows. They're so very _tactile_ with each other nowadays. Maybe that's why they don't talk as much anymore. They communicate better with touch.  
  
She'll tuck her arm into the crook of his when they're visiting the subjects at Wintertown, he'll put an arm around her shoulder sometimes in the middle of the night when either of them awake from a nightmare– sometimes when he wakes from one, she'll put both arms around his chest from behind and rest her chin on his shoulder as he shakes and shivers (it's been nine months but war never completely leaves them and if Jon is anything, it's a soldier); and if she's bold enough, she'll press soft kisses to that sinew lovingly ( _you're safe, I'm here, I'm_ here _Jon_ ) - or he'll curl an arm around her waist whenever some lesser lord is being too forward with The King of Westeros' sister- _cousin_ .  
  
Sometimes she even sits in his lap but Sansa won't ever speak of that, not even under threat of death. Only in their solar- for it is _theirs_ now -and usually when they're poring over the same book. Sansa will freely admit that sometimes she doesn't even pretend to read, just simply basks in the feeling of Jon's warm breath hitting the back of her neck and sometimes the rasp of his beard when he tucks his chin onto her shoulder to see clearer. One of his arms will be around her abdomen holding her steady, and the absolute strength in his arm will make her feel giddy and weak.  
  
Gods, she's so irrevocably _gone_ for this man it's unbelievable.  
  
He's always _kissing_ her too. Chaste kisses. Familial kisses. Kisses to her temple ( _hello; I will see you later; you're safe, Sansa_ ), kisses to her hair, kisses to her cheek ( _she especially loves those, she'll blush so hard she sometimes fears she'll look the colour of her hair_ ) and sometimes kisses to her nose when she does something he deems especially adorable.  
  
Her cousin is not stingy with his affection and she wants to believe that surely he must feel it too. This _bond_ between them is so much more than familial. No man touches his cousin, shares a bed with his cousin, _kisses_ his cousin the way Jon does with her and expects anyone else to believe it to be platonic.  
  
The only reason no one else knows about the way she and Jon act with each other is because they're both private people. It's very much unlike Daenerys' short stay in Winterfell. During that brief period of time, she'd made sure that everyone from the highest Lord in the North to the basest whore in Wintertown knew just _who_ was warming her bed.

It was disgusting and embarrassing (not to mention insulting, not only to her and Jon himself – he'd been more or less reduced to the Queen's whore, something that had disturbed and greatly concerned Sansa seeing how destructive the woman's personality was – but to their family's memory as well) and made it seem as if Jon bent the knee simply because he was fucking her.  
  
Sansa frowns slightly, pushing all thought of Jon's deceased aunt out of her head.  
  
She wants him. She wants him _badly_ and she's been trying her best so far to drop little hints that she does. It would be good for everyone, wouldn't it? Jon would need to marry - she knows he receives letters from Lords offering up their daughters - and not to run the risk of sounding entirely narcissistic, there's no smarter or better choice than herself.  
  
It isn't arrogance but fact and any lord's daughter not of House Stark won't be able to give Jon what he's always wanted. And what Jon's always wanted is the Stark name.

* * *

The door to the bedchambers opens and Jon walks in, his footsteps soft against the stone floor. He quickly begins to loosen the leather doublet as he heads to his side of the room to undress. Sansa unashamedly watches as he removes the black tunic, the powerful muscles of his back rippling as he pulls it over his head.  
  
She licks her lips and swallows hard, her throat dry as an image, sudden but familiar- at least in her dreams – comes to her of her dainty little fingers clawing into that sinew and strength as he moves above and _within_ her.  
  
Her heart slams against her chest and the atmosphere feels strangely hot. It isn't fair. How is she supposed to eloquently and diplomatically present her suggestion when every instinct of hers is telling her to get him into the bed and have her wicked way with him as soon as possible?  
  
Jon drops his breeches and Sansa's eyes widen before she quickly averts her eyes. She listens to the sound of him at the wash basin, then him changing into his sleep pants then the soft padding of his feet as he makes towards the bed.  
  
“Sansa?”  
  
Her head snaps up and she looks at him, trying her best not to appear as if she's been eyeing him since he's entered the room.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
She furrows her brows in confusion. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Aren't you coming to bed?”  
  
Sansa blinks then blushes as she nods her head frantically. “Oh yes, yes I am, I just needed a-” she pushes herself out of her chair a bit too quickly and ends up stumbling on her feet.  
  
Jon catches her easily and holds her up to his ( _bare,_ **very** _bare_ ) chest about the waist. Her eyes widen and she swallows thickly.  
  
“Easy, love.”  
  
Sansa positively _swoons_ . Jon holds her tighter to him, gripping her back, making her heart and stomach do all sorts of gymnastics.  
  
“You're certain that you're feeling alright?” Jon places the back of his hand to her forehead. “You don't seem to have a fever. Should I send for the maester?”  
  
She shakes her head. Her in her shift and him bare chested won't bode well for either of them. She tentatively places her hands on Jon's broad shoulders as she tries to balance herself on her weak knees.  
  
“I'm fine. Truly, I am.”  
  
Jon frowns and she wants nothing more than to kiss the lines away from his forehead. She doesn't know what's wrong with her. She's never felt like this about a man before.  
  
“Actually, there is something I wanted to discuss with you.”  
  
No time like the present, after all.  
  
His face softens and he nods his head. “I'm all yours.” He stops for a moment and then colour tinges his cheeks. “I mean, uh, that is, I'm all ears. Yes, that.”  
  
Sansa gives him an amused smile. She takes his hand and leads him to the edge of the bed. He sits down and looks at her quizzically. She notes absently that he doesn't seem to want to let go of her hand.  
  
She looks down at their intertwined hands for a moment too long then watches as his disentangles from hers. Jon purses his lips and a frown darkens his face.  
  
“I've been thinking,” she begins.  
  
Jon raises an eyebrow. “Alright? About what?”  
  
“About what would happen if you were to wed. Do you leave? Does your wife move here-”  
  
Sansa wants to curse. This isn't what she'd been planning at all. It dawns on her then that as the words tumble from her lips, that these thoughts have been there all along, ruminating in the dark recesses of her mind.  
  
Jon's frown deepens and he looks almost. . . _angry_ . “What? Where did you hear this? Who's been saying such things to you, Sansa? Tell me. I'll deal with them.” He looks ready to spring from the room in an instant.  
  
Sansa shakes her head. “No one's been saying anything to me, Jon. Still, it's something to think about, no? I know the Lords have been sending you letters offering up their daughters to you. You're the King and the most eligible man in all of Westeros. It's understandable that there will be a lot of women hoping to curry favour with you.”  
  
Jon's face becomes even more severe. “Do you _want_ me to accept one of their proposals? Do you wish for me to leave? Is that it?”  
  
Sansa's lips part in shock and indignation bubbles within her. “How. . . How can you even _think_ that? After everything that's happened, after everything we've been through, you'd think I'd want you gone? _Really_ ?”  
  
“Then why do you care so much?” Jon reaches for her hand, palm up, and Sansa contemplates for a few moments before letting him have it. He pulls her closer, so much so that she's standing between his legs.  
  
Her face feels warm and she can feel her heart begin to race again. Jon's head is level with her chest and she can see the sight is affecting him in the way that he keeps his eyes solely on hers. His cheeks colour slightly.  
  
“Sansa, I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to. And if. . . if I get married,” he grimaces, “I promise that you won't have to leave your home. Winterfell belongs to you. It belongs to the Starks. I won't take that from you.”  
  
She hears the unspoken words there: _I'm not a Stark_ .  
  
“It belongs to you too. You're our family.”  
  
He gives that self-deprecating half smirk he always does that means he doesn't believe her. “I don't want you to leave, Jon. Not now, not ever.”  
  
She clutches the hem of her shift nervously. Jon's eyes flick down at the movement and he swallows thickly. “And as for marriage. . . I don't want you to get married-”  
  
“Sansa,” he begins.  
  
“Unless it's to me.”  
  
Silence. She'd been expecting that. Jon swallows thickly, and Sansa watches as his eyes rove her form quickly. She doesn't miss the way his tongue comes out to wet his lips, or the way his cheeks darken even further.

“You're serious,” he says without inflection. His tone is blank but his face says otherwise.

“Yes.” She rambles on before he can open his mouth to continue. “It would be good for everyone, wouldn't it? We'd unite The North, The South and The Vale. You wouldn't have to leave us. You'd get to stay here and-”

“Those ignorant fools would stop vying for your hand,” Jon mutters darkly. By his tone of voice, Sansa can tell that he hadn't meant for those words to come out. He blushes but she just smiles.

“Yes. And you and I. . .”

“We'd rebuild House Stark,” Jon's voice is thick as if he can't quite believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“Yes. Just like Mother and Father would have done.”

“And you'd be safe-”

“And you'd have the Stark name. I want to give that to you, Jon. I want to.”

His calloused hand raises to her cheek and he traces the curve of it with one fingertip. “You want to marry me? Truly?”

Sansa nods her head, leaning into the hand on her cheek. Feeling strangely bold, she turns her head and kisses his palm. Jon shivers but doesn't let go of her. His other arm winds around her waist. Again, the strength and power in his grip makes her swoon, and she shamelessly tumbles into his lap.

Jon chuckles softly and shifts her so that she sits comfortably. Sansa blushes and buries her face in his neck, breathing him in. He strokes her back so gently and tenderly that it makes her shiver. He's so. . . so _big_.

Sansa's taller than he is, but Jon's body dwarfs hers in size. The way his arms are wrapped around her body makes her feel small and safe and well, that. . . she _loves_ that. She trails her nose up and down his neck, and his shoulders, relishing in his scent. He smells like soap, leather and the trees of the Wolfswood.

“Sansa?” he calls her softly. He sounds nervous, almost.

She lifts her head to look at him and this close, she can see the slight indigo flecks in his grey eyes, the faint white scars on his cheeks and over his eyes. A few stray curls have fallen into his face, and succumbing to the urge, Sansa pushes them back, tucking them behind his ears. Jon's eyes follow the movements, his gaze dark.

Sansa swallows thickly and blushes deeply. “Y-Yes?”

He looks at her silently for a long moment, just flicking his eyes over her face. She wonders what he sees and fights the urge to look away. He licks his lips quickly then speaks.

“I know the reason you want to marry me is so that I can stay here with you but that's not it for me.”

Sansa's heart rate picks up and she grips his arms – dear _gods_ he's pure muscle; she imagines he can just pick her up and do whatever he wants to her without breaking so much as a sweat and Sansa would let him; _gods would she_ let _him_ – unconsciously.

“It isn't?”

“No. It isn't.”

Sansa's tongue comes out to wet her dry lips and watches as Jon's eyes follow _that_ movement too, his eyes hot. “Then. . . then what is?”

_Say it. Say it, please. Tell me I'm not alone in this._

“Sweetheart,” he croons, his voice low and husky. He curls his fingers under her chin and lifts her face to his. “I think you already know.”

Sansa's eyes widens and her heart slams so loud in her chest, she's sure she can hear it. He means what she thinks. It can't be anything other than that, can it?

Jon's thumb lifts to her lips and traces her bottom lip. Her breath hitches and his teeth sink into his lip as he looks at her.

“Sansa I-”

He never gets to finish.

 


End file.
